Syrup

Last Saturday, a little before eight in the evening, I turned off a main road into a housing estate. The air was heavy with late summer torpor although it was cool inside the Cadillac six-passenger. My first job was to find the number of the house from which I was to collect my customers for the night.

As I rounded the corner a group of three girls waved me down. They were, I don't know, about nine years old. In bathing costumes and tee-shirts, they were clearly free to roam the neighbourhood. In this age of over-protective parents, it was heartening to see kids playing free, learning like they are supposed to, by being in the (reasonably controlled) local world.

I stopped and lowered the window.

Is there anyone famous on board? they asked, breathless with imagination.

Well, no. I'm just on the way to pick up my customers, I answered, playing it straight.

Are they famous?

Everyone I drive around thinks they're famous, I said.

I put the beast in Park and showed them the interior of the limo.

The house was a quarter of a mile away, and they followed me there, running along the footpath. I introduced myself to the gentleman who met me in the driveway, as he explained that the night was a surprise birthday gift for his wife and two of her friends. (Wouldn't it have been nice had The Boss told me this beforehand?)

The girls hung around while I waited, idling on the street. We chatted. I told them the deal, that the famous lady about to come out of the house was celebrating her birthday. And you know what they did? When she emerged, the neighbourhood smurfs sang her 'Happy Birthday'.

I don't think I've stopped smiling yet.






Buick photo from here [link]

Saturday night

There is no perpetual motion machine, but if it the secret is ever discovered, I believe it will be powered by sexual energy. It's the excitation source that never stops.

Saturday nights in my small Florida town, are like Saturday nights everywhere. Young - or in Florida's case, old - people are out and about, looking for the one. Whether it's the one for one night or one lifetime is not clear, but mostly the need is immediate. The smell of elevated hormone levels is eye-watering, everyone's heightened level of awareness of everyone else eye-popping.

It's always been this way, but now I'm an observer of the game, at least when I'm out working. The twenty-somethings like this place, Horse Feathers. It's an okay restuarant by day, with a good wine list, but on the weekends, it turns into a zoo. Lurking around outside waiting for my customers, one thing strikes me as different from when I was twenty-odd. Thesedays the girls dress up; sky-high heels, skirts, expensive blouses, hot dresses, make-up, hair, nails. They're walking Vogues. But the guys are slobs. Jeans, sneakers and untucked shirts, trucker hats - the contrast is jarring.

It makes me wonder if men even think about trying any more. Maybe they don't need to.

Oh, how things have changed.